Run in the Sun
by Heptagon
Summary: Daphne is running in the sand.
1. Run in the Sun

**Note:****  
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Here is a lighter-brighter sequel to my story "Run in the Dark", and as is often (but not always) the case with sequels, it's not (nearly) as good as the first part. I haven't managed to maintain the laconic style, but I'm trying to make that up with confusion and contradictions. So if you truly enjoyed the first part, you might not like this. But if the ending of "Run in the Dark" has left you unhappy or dissatisfied, you might enjoy this sequel. :)

o.o.o**  
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**Run in the Sun**

Daphne was running in the sand. She ran two kilometres. Or maybe it was five. Or maybe it was fifty. Or maybe she hadn't moved at all. It was difficult to tell distance in the desert.

It was difficult to tell time in the desert. She had no idea how long she had stayed here – weeks, months, years. She remembered vaguely – as if someone had told her about it a long time ago – how she first got here. She had filled her fridge with all her best wines, some meat and cheeses that went well with the wine, and then fooled everyone into thinking that she was getting better. She had hidden the refrigerator, organized a get-together, and then left a note on the laid table.

She had lost the fridge. She had made a couple of calendars, and lost each one of them. She had lost all sense of direction and time, and possibly most of her touch with reality. There was not much need for reality in a desert. In exchange for everything she had lost, she had discovered mushrooms. They grew in strange parts of the desert and when she ate them, the parts grew stranger yet.

It had been difficult running in the sand at first. It had been difficult making water when the sun scorched her from above, and the sand burnt her from below, and stubborn memories scalded her from inside out. It had been difficult to concentrate while being just an inch away from becoming one with the nature in the way destined for every mortal.

She wasn't sure she was alive, on some days. Maybe she was a ghost now, roaming the desert, unseen by most, forever and forever and forever. She was not going back until she'd learned to wake the dead. And not before she had figured out where exactly she was and how exactly to get out of here.

But now she loved running in the sand and didn't want to go anywhere. There was a scent of storm in the air – but she'd learned to deal with storms. There was a ripple of colour in the air, and she recognized it instantaneously.

She knew he'd be there, waiting, when she stopped running. She didn't stop, not until she heard him call her name.

Daphne. Daphne. Daphne. Ghost of the Desert.

She stopped and turned to face him. And there he stood, in front of her, as beautiful, as real, as alive as she remembered. She sighed and fell to her knees, sinking her fingers into the sand.

"Daphne," the figure whispered as a breeze, "What are you doing?"

"Running," she stated, fisting her hands in the sand, gripping the ground to steady herself. "You know how much I love running."

"Do you dislike the l-word as well?" he asked, and the sand was not enough to keep her from falling apart. She hated it when he spoke with words from her memories, because those memories were real, while this was nothing but a shadow, an illusion. But it was her illusion, the creation of the cruel desert and her cruel mind, and it spoke with words from her memories.

"No," she said, giving the reply she had given before, precious water running down her face, "that is a word I like."

"Daphne. Daphne. Daphne. Ghost of the Desert. What are you doing?"

"I do not know," she sobbed.

"You should go back," the illusion announced, and she looked up in surprise, because she hadn't expected that from a reflection of herself.

"I cannot," she said, "not before I've learned to bring you back."

"Perhaps you should first learn to bring _yourself_ back."

Daphne shook her head, "I've gone too far."

"It will not be easy, I know. But I think we should try."

"What do you know," Daphne muttered, angrily, "You are nothing but a mirage."

He did not argue, because she was right. He was a mirage, an illusion, or perhaps a hallucination; a trick played by the light and the heat, possibly with the additional help of mushrooms.

He was the reason she did not leave the desert, did not even try. Because the place was one big refrigerator, white and fast, and here she could live in the after, forever and forever and forever.

"You have to go back, Daphne," the mirage spoke.

"No, I don't," she argued with it. "I won't."

"You will."

"Can't think of a reason why I should," she mumbled.

"There's a storm coming," the mirage pointed out.

"I know."

"You can live in the desert, Daphne, but you cannot die here."

"Am I still alive?" she wondered.

"Yes. Yes, you're alive."

"I have a cruel mind," she said, laughing bitterly, "That keeps tormenting me."

"It wants you to go back before it's too late."

"This is too late," Daphne argued, "We wasted the before, we wasted the after, we had the now, I couldn't stand the later, and this is too late."

"No; this is something else."

"I'm not coming back," she said.

"No. You are going on."

"I'm not going anywhere," Daphne stated resolutely.

"Not even for me?" the mirage prompted.

"No."

"Not even for the real one?"

"I cannot help him," she admitted. "I haven't learned anything."

"You may have learned more than you think. But you will never know if it's enough unless you leave the desert."

Daphne glared at the gathering storm. "I thought I lost all my logical thinking a long time ago."

"You tried very hard to destroy yourself, Daphne, Ghost of the Desert," the illusion of him told her. "But the desert loves you, as do I."


	2. Hermione's Truth

**Hermione's Truth**

Daphne was running in the sand. She ran two kilometres. She did not stop, even though the storm whispered her name.

Sometimes she truly hated herself. This was one of those times. She had lived in a dream, in a mirage, in an illusion for too long. She had tried to destroy herself, but the desert loved her. The desert helped her. It took away the sanity she would have otherwise ground to pieces, and projected it back at her, giving it the form and figure she could not resist. The desert was wise and wicked.

She thought of Hermione as she ran. The woman had been a friend. She had also been very clever, so it still surprised Daphne that she had managed to fool her and slip away under her watchful gaze. Because Hermione had been there with her, had sat in the refrigerator hour after hour, as she had stared at the wall and willed time to move backwards. But she had wanted Daphne to get better, and had made the mistake of believing the good news.

Daphne ran on, thinking about Hermione. Little did she know, and never would she have believed it, but approximately at the same time, Hermione was thinking about her. And she had received some very good news.

Hermione did not know what to say. She could hardly believe her own eyes, when they gazed upon the impossible. No, it was never impossible; but the Healers had given very little hope. They had never been able to detect the exact spell, and therefore did not know how to counter-effect it; none of the usual remedies had worked. The best they could tell was that over time they might discover something new, and maybe then they would be able to cure it properly. Maybe. Might. Not very encouraging.

And Daphne had told her about her plans of going into the desert to learn the proper way of magic, and come back with the ability to raise the dead. Because where all other cures and remedies had failed, the power of resurrection must succeed. Besides, Daphne had said, it would be a very useful skill indeed.

But Daphne had not returned. And the Healers had not come to any new helpful information. Therefore, it was very difficult for her to believe her eyes. But the highly improbably had happened – Draco Malfoy had recovered from his mysterious curse; he had woken up from something like death, all by himself.

And now he was standing in front of her, not at all concerned with the fact that he had been in a death-like state for a while. He was concerned with just one thing, he had asked her only one question, one that she wished she could answer, yet knew that she couldn't.

Is Daphne all right?

She should have never let her slip away under her watchful gaze! She knew how badly she was doing, she should have been wiser! She saw her run towards her self-destruction, she saw her tear away more and more of herself, until there was very little left. She should have known better!

She hadn't known better, and now she had to tell Draco the bitter truth. There was no more Daphne Greengrass.

"She went to Nice," Hermione began, and that was the truth. She half expected him to storm away at once, but he must have seen something in her expression or heard it in her tones, because he did not move.

"There's more," he stated.

"Tell me," he ordered. "I don't care if she has gone and lived her life, just like she should have. I just want to know that she's fine."

Hermione swallowed in misery and self-reproach, "She took it badly. Very badly. She thought you were as good as dead. We all did, in a way. We didn't think… didn't dare hope…"

He took a step towards her, face turning dark and threatening, "Tell me!"

"She drank a lot," Hermione said, lowering her eyes in shame. "We tried to help her, we did. We should have tried harder."

"Granger," his tone was stormy, and filled with concern and growing panic.

"It's Weasley now," Hermione corrected silently. "And then… then…" her voice cracked, "then she got the refrigerator."

This was not the dreadful news Draco had been expecting. The confusion radiated from him. Confusion and relief.

"You know, a fridge," Hermione explained, trying to control herself. "_The_ fridge, she called it. She put it up in her garden, and she always ran there, and she sat inside it for hours, staring at the wall and… and she always asked after you… what's the word on the street, that's how she asked it. But there never was any word. I was truly frightened for her. Until one day…"

"Merlin help me, Granger, I will hurt you if you do not tell me—"

"The fridge was gone," Hermione said, ignoring the threat. "The fridge was gone, and she was not drinking anymore, and she said she wanted to invite all our friends over for a little cosy get-together, because she didn't want to be alone all the time. It didn't do her good, she said. She needed some help, she said. She needed friends around her to help her cope. She looked fine, she looked better, and I so much wanted her to become better, that, dear Merlin, I believed her. I'm so sorry, Draco. I believed her."

She half expected him to hurt her, or at least demand that she would continue. But he did neither. He was staring past her as she looked up, and his features where distorted with grim realization.

"She's not fine, is she?" he whispered.

"I do not know," Hermione replied. "But I don't think she is."

"You don't _know_?" he asked in shock. Again, this was not what he had expected.

Hermione sighed and told the whole truth, "She went to the desert. She left us a note that she went to the desert. To learn the proper way of magic. To return with the ability to raise the dead, so that she could bring you back."

When she looked up, she was surprised to see Draco grinning.

"She went to the desert? Merlin, Granger, you spoke as if she was... worse. She has always wanted to go to the desert. I'm sure she'll learn a lot there."

"You don't understand," Hermione said. "She did not take her wand."

"Of course she didn't," Draco said, trying to reassure himself as much as her. "She doesn't need it. She's very good at wandless magic."

Hermione shook her head, "You don't understand."

* * *

><p><strong>Note:<strong> So this was the story twist my muse and my beta both disliked. But in my defence I can say, that I did not bring a character back from death to write a sequel, I never wanted to kill him in the first place. I argued about it with my muse when writing the last part. It went something like this: Muse: Kill Draco. Me: No! I don't want to. Muse: Kill him. It's good for the story. Me: Noo! In the end we compromised. Muse got her story the way she wanted it, and I got this sequel. Yeah, I'm a sucker for happy endings.


	3. Something

**Something **

Daphne was running in the sand. She ran two kilometres and then stopped, because she thought she had heard him call her name.

She dropped down to the ground, keeping her eyes closed, wondering what form her mirage had taken this time. Would there be an old park bench, rusty, dirty, and broken? Or would there be a refrigerator, white, clean, and filled with the best of her wines? Or would there be no props, just him, standing in the middle of the sand, smiling and looking at her with love in his eyes?

She braced herself for the impact and opened her eyes. But there was no one there, just the sun and the sand and the air between them.

He had called her name. Well, he hadn't exactly believed that she would come running, had he? This was not the park. This was the desert, which was a lot bigger than the park, and he could not have expected Daphne to come running just because he'd called her name.

She had come back from death when he'd called her name. And now it had been him, coming back to life, only to be told that she had left long ago. Left and gone to the desert, to learn the proper way of magic.

She might yet be alive. He had to believe that she was. He had to believe that and keep looking for her, till the end of his days, if necessary. He would keep believing that she was alive until proven otherwise, and he knew it would be next to impossible to prove anything, even if it truly was otherwise.

One way or the other, she had become one with the desert.

He picked a random direction and started walking. If she was still around here, he would find her. She might be here. She probably was. She had been talking about going to desert before. To learn the proper way of magic. To go to the desert, to come back from the desert, full of wisdom. To found the Greengrass Academy of Wandless Magic, perhaps.

He thought about her. He dug up every memory of her that he had, and held it with utmost care, perusing it slowly, with reverence.

Daphne in the before. They had been laughing, and teasing, and even flirting a little, but never crossed any line of seriousness. He had enjoyed the lightness of their relationship too much to take any risks of changing it. Or perhaps he'd simply been too lazy to bother doing anything.

Daphne in the after. She had sat on a box in that piece of garbage he lived in, touching her fingers to the wall, and refusing to look away from it. It had killed him to see her living like this, living in garbage, doing things he dared not to think of to escape from starvation. He would have done anything to change that, if there had been anything to do.

Daphne in the now. They had stood side by side, wands out, ready to fight, and kill, and survive. There was constant running, and hiding, and facing danger. But there were quiet moments, too, time for living and loving and being happier than ever before. At night he had held her in his arms, in daylight he had stood at her side, ready to fight, to kill, to die. Anything to keep her safe. Anything to save her. Anything for her. She had not known it, from what he'd gathered, and he hoped it was true, but the curse that had taken years off his life, had been aimed at her. He remembered the feeling of relief when the curse had surged through him, relief and panic, in fear of the next one he could no longer save her from.

Daphne in the later. He had no memories of her there. But he'd wrung as much truth out of Granger as he could; in lieu of memories, there were imaginations. He could picture her running round the house in Nice; he did not need an eternal whiteness to gaze at to _see_ her doing that, a bottle of wine in one hand, the fingers of the other brushing against the wall. The image hurt him even more than their forlornness in the after. He reproached himself for not being there to look after her, for not awaking from his near-death state earlier, for deserting her the way he had, without even a hope of their having a future together.

Funny thing, he did not blame Granger – Weasley now – for letting her go. For one thing, Granger blamed herself enough, for another, it had not been her duty to protect Daphne, but his. And in any case, he knew Daphne was sly enough to slip away under anyone's watchful gaze, except from his, perhaps. But he had known her in the before, in the after, and in the now.

And this, what was it? Was it still the later, where they had a chance of happiness, maybe even happily ever after? Or was it too late?

_No_, the desert seemed to whisper to him, or perhaps it was his own desperation that he heard. _This is something else. _

Whatever it was, he was here. He was awake, and alive, and here. And this was not going to be easy, but he wouldn't stop at simply trying. He would find her, no matter how long it took, no matter what he'd have to do to find her. He wouldn't do just anything, he'd do everything. And more, if necessary.

_Something else_, the sand whispered.


	4. Wise and wicked

**Wise and wicked**

Daphne was running in the sand. She ran two kilometres. Then she stopped, sniffed the air, glanced around her with a suspicious look, and ran off in a new direction.

Daphne had made up her mind. Or perhaps her mind had made itself up, quite independently, while the rest of her was too much occupied with mirages and mushrooms. But the decision had been reached, and she was determined to see it through – Daphne Greengrass was returning from the desert, armed with wisdom, and hopefully the ability to raise the dead.

It was not easy. She didn't think it would be. But it was possible, that she believed. She listened and she ran, she sniffed and she ran, she looked and felt and thought and ran. The desert loved her. It loved her enough to let her go, to even help her leave it.

It was not easy to leave. She had been, if not happy, then at least better here. She could vaguely remember life in the later; and clearly recall every little thing from the before, the after, and the now. But the later was a hazy blur, something like the park she had ran through when she had died. There were bits and pieces: she remembered wine, and the Fridge, and Hermione, keeping a sharp eye on her, the one that she nevertheless managed to dodge.

He had shuddered at the mere thought of the after. She, however, had quite enjoyed it. There was a certain simplicity about the life in the after. There were certain things they had to do to survive, certain boundaries of willingness to be shifted, certain lines to be drawn at different places. But once that was done, there was little else to worry about. Little else to do but run, and stop, and sit on a box and stare at a wall. And of course it was hard to keep doing it, keep her eyes at the wall and her fingers against it, when she wanted to turn away from it and find consolation, and give consolation – and more, so much more – to another.

He had thought they'd have plenty of time. He'd never spoken a word of his maybe liking her in the before. He'd kept himself from saying anything in the after. And of course she had known him, but they'd both been good at keeping feelings under cover. He had never said a word, and she had never suspected that those were the words he might speak. She had vowed never to speak the words herself. Had she been too lazy or too afraid to change things? Or too happy that she was able to spend all her evenings at his side.

Daphne stopped, held her breath, and listened. The desert spoke to her. A storm was coming, but she did not care. She knew how to handle storms.

She did not know how to handle reality. Reality, a place where he did not walk at her side, but lay down in a bed, dead to the world around him. Maybe. Might. The Healers had offered such _nice_ words of hope to her. And she had thought she could do better. Wisdom, knowledge, power – what did she care for such things? Nothing, as long as she was running through the sand, her mirages urging her forward.

"You have to leave the desert, Daphne," her illusion spoke, "that's the whole point of going to a desert, that you return from it, full of wisdom."

"At least you won't bother me once I'm out of here," she grumbled in reply, and then stopped breathing, because she had suddenly realized the truth of her words.

"I will always be with you, Daphne," the mirage of him promised, the pledge as constant as the image itself, fading away into nothingness as she stared at it.

"I must take some mushrooms with me," she thought. There was one problem with her going back, independent of the whole reality issue. Should it turn out that she did not have, in fact, the ability to raise the dead, she didn't think she would manage to slip away under the watchful gaze of Hermione for a second time. And was she willing to leave the desert, knowing full well that returning to it would be a lot more difficult that leaving it?

Was she willing to desert the desert and remain in reality, even with the additional help of wisdom and mushrooms she might take back with her?

This question plagued Daphne as she kept running, but she kept running, because he hadn't made her stop, and nothing but him could make her stop. Nothing but the real him, and even the fake one was only urging her forward.

_I will always be there for you, Daphne, Ghost of the Desert_, the storm sang.

The desert kept its word. Daphne left it, returning to the reality with wisdom and mushrooms. She used her power to raise the dead to bring back Draco, and they finally lived the future they had both been wishing for. And all this time, the desert never left Daphne.

And Daphne never left the desert. It loved her too much to let her go.


	5. Intruder

**Intruder**

Daphne was running in the sand. She ran two kilometres, and then did not stop. She never stopped these days, not before she fell down to the ground in sheer exhaustion.

These days, she wasn't very sure about her destination. She wasn't very sure about a lot of things. She pondered deep philosophical questions, such as _Where am I_, _Who am I_, and _Am I_? In the end she decided that she was, because the alternative was simply too confusing, and resolved to keep running until things started to make more sense. Or until someone called for her to stop.

No one called for her to stop. But one day, she opened her eyes and the world had changed. Something was different. She felt it on her feet as she ran over the sand, she felt it on her arms as the wind softly touched them, she felt it on her face as the sun shone down upon her, as it always did. But somehow something had shifted, enough to bother her. Like that one time when she'd been running through the park, dead.

The air smelt of storm. But there were always storms in the desert, coming and going and gathering and dying out. She had seen them come and watched them go. She glanced towards the horizon; this was going to be a big one.

She never stopped these days until she fell down in sheer exhaustion, but the strangeness around her made her stop now, as surely as if someone had called her name, someone who had the power to make her stop. She sat down on the ground, sunk her hands into the hot sand, and asked it, _Tell me_.

And since the desert knew her and loved her, its grains of sand told her their story. The wind blowing against her skin added its own. They were but a tiny, inconsequential part of this desert, which was vast and wise, but they were each part of the whole, and without them there would be no desert. Because every bit mattered, however small and meaningless it seemed. And the story they told, was the story of the desert, vast yet vincible.

The desert knew her and loved her, because she had come here to learn from it, to honour it, to become one with it, one way or the other. But now there was someone else here, someone quite different – an intruder. With those, the desert dealt swiftly and fatally.

Daphne's first thought was in accordance with the desert – destroy! This was her desert, and she was not going to let anyone invade it. If they wanted wisdom and mushrooms, they better find another place. This was _hers_. But she relented while the desert did not. This intruder, whoever it was, had come from a world outside the desert. Which meant that there was a world outside the desert. Very slowly, her mind was starting to clear.

She was Daphne Greengrass. She was in the desert. She was, whether alive or otherwise. And now there was someone else here, in the desert, about to be dealt with swiftly and fatally. These facts were enough for her; the rest of the truth could go figure itself out.

She stood up and started running towards the storm. It was going to be a really big one.

"Spare them," she pleaded with the storm. She heard the desperation in her voice, yet did not understand it until much later.

The storm did not hear her, or did not care for the plea. It continued to gather, gaining strength as it did, and Daphne ran faster, gathering, gaining speed. The grains of sand spoke to her from beneath. She listened and ran on.

And then the storm was no longer gathering, but relishing its fury upon the land, and the sand, and the air; upon the mushrooms, and upon Daphne, who knew what it was up to and had every intention of stopping it.

He had found the fridge. It was half full of wines and entirely buried under the sand. He almost cried when he found it. From what he knew about deserts, and by now he knew several things about deserts, they were not littered with refrigerators half full of wines. He probably did cry when he found it – he was too excited to notice. Too excited, or too frightened. He'd found the refrigerator buried in the sand. He did not want to think what else he may find, buried in the sand. He did not wish his searches to be over yet. Somewhere between one desert and the next, he had lost his hope. All he had now was obsession, determination, and stubbornness.

Hermione was as worried about him as she'd ever been about her. She had sworn not to make the same mistake again. Thus she had made a different mistake.

He had noticed the storm gathering. It was not his first, but by the looks, it would be his worst. He was going to wait it out, because one does not survive storms by diving foolishly into them. He was going to survive, and continue with his obsession, determination, and stubbornness.

But the desert had another idea. It painted a pretty little picture for him, and placed it right by the storm's path, waiting for him to see it and dive right into it. That very morning it had uncovered the fridge for him to find.

The desert dealt swiftly with its intruders, swiftly and fatally.


	6. Decades

**Decades**

Daphne was running in the sand. She ran two kilometres, or maybe it was five, or maybe it was fifty. She did not stop when she heard someone call her name, but only ran faster, wishing with all her might that this was not too late.

A few decades later, or so it felt, she hit the solid wall of the sandstorm, and was swallowed by it. It beat down at her, as harshly as it beat the land, and the air, and the mushrooms, if there were any. She could deal with desert storms, but she usually dealt with them from the outside. Never before had she dived right into one – her survival instinct had forbidden it very loudly. But now all her inner voices, thoughts, and instincts were muffled by the biting sand around her. All but one.

She did not so much see but feel the lone figure as she came upon him, felt him raise his wand against the storm, as she thought, _Fool! You do not fight a storm with a wand, you fight a storm by staying out of its path. _And for a second she agreed with the desert – destroy the intruder – and as she did, she felt its power surge through her, all its wisdom and wickedness, its vastness and ferocity, and for the first time, she took the power offered to her and used it against the giver. The ground around her shifted, and rose.

And then it was all over. The vanquished storm ebbed away in shameful defeat, slowly dying out. Daphne fell to the ground, exhausted, excited, bewildered. Next to her lay the intruder, breathing.

He opened his eyes to starry skies. He wondered if he was dead; he remembered the ground rising up all around him. He'd been a fool, diving into a storm like that. But as he thought this, he suddenly remembered the vision that had made him do it, and sat up at once. The sand around him jumped. And a voice said,

"Sorry. I'm not used to wielding such power."

Draco snapped his head around, and stared. His mouth fell open and words of shock tumbled out from it,

"Are you a mirage?"

"I don't know," Daphne said, staring back. "I don't think so. Are you?"

"I don't think so," he repeated the words. He recalled the stars. "There's no sun."

She glanced upwards, as if to make sure. "You're right, there is not," she spoke, then asked, "Have you had any mushrooms?"

"What?"

"Mushrooms. They grow in some parts. They give you hallucinations," she remarked calmly.

"You're a hallucination?"

Daphne laughed in reply, "It's either that or I've completely lost my mind, and out of those two, I prefer the first option. Though sometimes I think I do have lost my mind. All these little pretty pictures the desert paints for me, of park benches and vineyards and tents and academies, they are all very confusing. I'm not sure at all, am I in Nice dreaming about the desert, or in the desert dreaming about Nice? But you're a hallucination, that I'm certain of. Even though I can't recall eating any mushrooms."

Thinking was difficult for him. Logic seemed to flee into the night. Was it the shock, or the desert, or the sight of her, sitting there on the sand as if all those years had never passed, as if she'd taken a trip to the desert, and he had joined her a few days later.

"I found your fridge," he said, "Why are you sure I'm a hallucination?"

"Because you're still dead and there's no word on the street of you being otherwise. And even if," she spoke, her voice quivering a little, "even if the healers had found a cure, and had brought you back, you still couldn't be here. I'm lost in the desert. I cannot be found. I don't know where I am, and no one else knows where I am, and I've tried leaving it a few times, but it doesn't let me. It loves me, and wants to keep me. Forever and forever and forever."

Draco looked around – the sand, the air, the stars – under his very sight they transformed into a giant, ferocious beast that was holding his love in its claws, and was not going to let go.

"But I think I could leave now," Daphne said, frowning at the thought, "it gave me the power to destroy the intruder – you – and I took it. So maybe I will be able to leave it now. But I'm not sure if I want to. I'm not sure if I can take the reality.

"Wait," she then spoke, confusing realizations dawning upon her. "If you are nothing but a hallucination, why did the desert go through all that trouble to destroy you? The storm, and everything, and giving me the power to abolish… it does not make sense."

"It was not easy," he said, "finding you. I knew you had gone to the desert, from the note you left that Hermione showed me. But which desert? And how was I going to find you, among the eternal fields of sand? And did I dare hope you were still there, after all this time? I had to hope, though. It was the only clue I had. And still, I have to admit with shame, that for a while now, I never thought I might find you alive."

"That is yet to be determined," Daphne replied. "I might have died and not noticed it, much like Professor Binns. But you are wrong. You look all wrong. You look… different."

Draco grinned, "I am a little older, you know. It has been decades, after all."

"Decades? Really? Decades?" Daphne shook her head, "I'm not sure I can believe that. Days, weeks, months, yes, maybe even years. But I couldn't have been here more than a few years. Surely I haven't."

"You said you had to go to a desert for _at least_ a decade to learn its wisdom," he said, smiling at first, but then suddenly growing serious, "You have honestly no idea how long you have been here?"

"I told you," Daphne repeated, sounding slightly annoyed. "I've been here for a couple of years, not more. Three at most. I might have lost all the calendars I made, and I might have lost some sense of time, but I think I would have noticed a whole ten years passing."

"You have not been away for ten years…"

"Yes, I know that," she inserted.

"… you've been away for _eighteen_ years."

"You say very odd things for a hallucination," she muttered to herself, then spoke louder to contradict, "No. I certainly have not."

"Daphne," he began, and they both started at the sound of the name. The desert had called her name for countless of times, but never quite like this. He had spoken her name for countless of times, but never quite like this. Both needed a moment to cope with the strange, new sensation.

"Daphne," he said after a while. "I think I know better how long you've been gone. Healers never found a cure to bring me back, so I had to recover on my own. They gave all kinds of pretty speeches to explain this, about curses losing power over time, and the body's natural ability to heal itself. I think they are still quite clueless about it. But they never did a thing for me, so I had to do it myself. It took me nine year to wake up, but I did it. And then…"

"Haha!" Daphne exclaimed, victorious. "Nine years. You said it. _Nine_ years. I knew it couldn't have been more than that."

"It took me nine years to wake up from the curse, and it took me another nine years to find you, Daphne. And do not think for a second I could mistake the length of those nine years. I can account for each and every day of them, I can name you the deserts I searched, show you the area I covered, on each day of those nine years. So don't you dare tell me I do not know how long it has been!"

Daphne stared at him. Draco stared back.

"Are you… sure? I mean," she hurried to add, "are you sure you're not an illusion? Because there have been so many of them. And whenever I allow myself to believe in them, I wake up and find myself back in the desert. But now you're here, and I don't know what you are, and you look so different from the hallucinations I've had so far… and you say things my illusions have never spoken of. And suddenly I'm thinking like I haven't thought for a while, suddenly I want things to make sense, think that they should make sense, even though I know there's as little need for sense in a desert as there is for reality.

"And I find myself inclined to believe this, despite the countless of experiences I've had about the harmfulness of belief. Sometimes I think I've already lost my mind, and this is too late. But then I think there's still a little bit of Daphne Greengrass left under all this madness and confusion, and I think that if I could keep a clear head, I might find a way out of this desert, and I might go back to Nice for real.

"So you see my dilemma. If you are just another cruel trick of the desert, another pretty picture it painted for me, then maybe I should not believe you. Maybe I could resist you if I tried really hard. Because if I let myself believe, and it all turns out to be unreal, then I've lost another piece of my sanity. And there are not very many pieces of that left, you know."

"You think it's any different for me?" Draco growled. "You think I have not lost my mind, searching for you these past nine years? You think I've not had beliefs, and hopes, and dreams, all of which have turned into disappointments? Do you think it is easy, living with the knowledge that I was the reason of your going into the desert in the first place, that my leaving you had sent you out there to die in loneliness? That it was all my fault, that I who had pledged to protect you, to keep you safe, had been the direct cause your self-destruction? Do you think it's any easier for me to believe that I am alive, and you are alive, and that we here and alive and together?"

Daphne was silent for a while. When she spoke at last, it wasn't much louder than the breeze, "Is it?"

"Is it what?"

"Is it easy for you to believe that you're alive, and I'm alive, and that we're here and alive and together, and this is not too late, but something else entirely?"

"You _think_ it is?" he asked, a little incredulous, somewhat angry, and a lot something else.

"I think," Daphne said, slowly and meaningfully, inserting conviction into each syllable, "that if you believe it, then I will believe it, too. Perhaps it will cost me my sanity, but I don't really care that much for my sanity, whereas…"

"Whereas?" he prompted.

With a smile she finished her sentence.


	7. Prophet

**Prophet**

Daphne was running in the sand. She ran two kilometres, then stopped. She had run exactly two kilometres, and it had taken her nine years. No, minutes. Nine minutes. She was out of the desert, and here she could notice the passing of years. Nine minutes. It was very important to remember what was real and what wasn't.

She was in Nice. That was her house round which she'd been running, along the sandy path through her gardens. Yonder were the vineyards, and beneath the house were the wine cellars, one of which she had accidentally blown up a few days ago. Days, not years; days.

Over there was the spot where the refrigerator had stood, before she'd stacked it with wines, meats and cheeses, and gone to the desert. Eighteen years, four months, and two days ago. Three months and eleven days ago she'd returned from the desert, and had been living here, in Nice.

Draco was alive. He'd woken up from the curse, and he was living here, too. He was alive and real. They were happy together. This was the future they had both dreamed of. Everything was going to be truly fine now.

She'd blown up a cellar. She hadn't meant to. She'd gone down there for a bottle of wine, she'd taken a wand, and cast the spell for light. And then the whole place had exploded around her. Nothing had happened to her, the magic that had once protected her from storms kept her safe in this rain of wood, stone, and wine. She'd been quite unhappy at seeing some of her best wines destroyed. Draco, however, had been in such a mood that she wanted to run until she dropped down in sheer exhaustion; but he hadn't let her leave the room.

Hermione had come to see them. She came very often recently, possibly to keep an eye on both of them and make sure neither disappeared again. She was worried and she was sorry, about lots of things. If Daphne listened very closely, she could catch sentences of their conversation; but she already knew what they were talking about. Draco had shared the vine cellar incident with her, she was sure of it, he was too terrified of it not to ask for her advice. And Hermione, in return, would tell him what a hazard it was to keep Daphne here, and that it would be much better, and they would both be much safer if he handed her over to the Healers.

At first, Draco would disagree. Passionately, vehemently. The Healers did nothing for him, he would say, the Healers are good for nothing. But Hermione would try to persuade him, with all means possible. She would say he would never forgive himself if he let anything happen to her. She would say she needed special care and treatment. She would say her magic was powerful and she was unable to control it. She would say her mind was wandering. She would say she was another Ariana.

He'd exclaim hotly that she was _not_ another Ariana, then look puzzled, and ask who Ariana was.

Daphne grinned to herself – she had become quite a prophet. But that was the natural order of things – go into desert, live there for a couple of decades, learn a lot of wisdom and gain a lot of power, and come back as a prophet. And wasn't there an old saying, that prophets were never accepted in their own land? She looked around – it was her land, her garden, her house, so it all fit the proverb.

She took a few aimless steps down another path, one that was not sandy. Draco did not appreciate the sand. But she liked it. She sometimes dreamed of the desert, and those dreams were not all bad. She would much rather go back to the desert than let herself be thrown into a madhouse. She'd go crazy there!

She had reached a familiar turn in the garden; of course, all the turns were familiar to her. Or at least they should have been. But this was an important one, it took her towards Hermione and Draco, still in deep heated discussion about her future. Neither had asked her to remain present; neither had even thought of it, both had nodded happily as she'd excused herself from their company.

He looked at her as if she was broken. And she had to admit that she was not at the most steadiest place in her life right now, and she did tend to forget what was real and what wasn't, and her power sometimes did take her by surprise – but he looked at her as if she was a broken thing he was trying to fix. And when he looked at her like that, she wanted to run away and never stop until she dropped down in sheer exhaustion.

The body needs time to heal, he would argue with Hermione. Give her time to get better. She's trying so very hard.

And she was trying, enough to fool him into thinking that she might make a full recovery. Or fool him into thinking that she thought she might make a full recovery. Or maybe he wasn't fooled at all, maybe he looked right through her and saw, that while she did all the little things that were supposed to her help, she was accepting herself as she was – a prophet from the desert. Maybe that's why he looked at her like that.

He'd show Hermione a list she had made. One of several, because she kept losing them like she'd once lost calendars. A list of things, well, two lists – one of what was real, and the other of what wasn't. That was activity reasonable enough, and the lists were quite helpful when her mind was running loose.

She wondered if Hermione would question him about the real part of the list, and hoped that she didn't. There were a few items there that caused him pain. She'd probably pay more attention to the not real part, she would comment on the Academy and inquire about Aimée. And what would Draco say to that?

A few weeks ago he'd asked the same thing from Daphne, and she had hesitated in giving a reply. A friend, she might have said, and it might have been a better answer. But she had chosen to tell the truth – that Aimée was someone who did not exist and never would. She was only a pretty picture of a pretty daughter the desert had painted for her. She wasn't real, and she would never become so. For _that_, at least, she was too broken and too dangerous.

Today, Hermione would give in. Because she never wanted to send Daphne away, and more than that, she could not bear tearing the two of them apart. She had been there with both of them, when they had been without the other, she had witnessed their pain and despair, and was blaming herself for causing it.

There was too much blame between the three of them; Hermione blamed herself for many things, Draco blamed himself for almost all the things, and even Daphne had her own regrets. She felt they would all be much happier, could they but do away with all that blame.

The discussion had ended. Now there was time for one more glass of wine in companionable, yet worried silence, and then Hermione would take her leave. Without saying goodbye to her.

Daphne waited until their friend had taken off, then headed towards Draco. Left alone, it would take him just a few seconds – not years – to start worrying about her. She saw him relax as he caught sight of her.

"Hermione's gone?" Daphne said, looking around. That's how normal people did it. _They_ didn't simply know. "Why did she leave so soon? I would have liked to see her."

She could read his face like an open book, though maybe not a book she would have chosen to read.

"You saw her, Daphne. You spoke to her."

"I know that," Daphne snapped. "I meant I would have liked to see more of her."

"She'll come again soon."

Daphne nodded. There was truth in those words. She wondered whether to leave things like this. She'd once been good at keeping things bottled in, but now she'd broken a lot of bottles by letting things out. She didn't like keeping secrets from him, or the other way around.

"What were the two of you talking about?" she asked, giving him a chance to tell her everything. He didn't take it. She knew he was going to lie before he even opened his mouth, so she interrupted him.

"What's the verdict? Am I to be thrown into a mad house?"

She was afraid she might lose some respect for him, should he try to deny it, or evade the question with an accusation of eavesdropping, but to his credit and her delight he did neither.

"Don't be stupid. I would never let anyone take you away from me."

There was something strange about the way he said it, though it was not the voice or the expression. Of course, he was trying to play it cool, trying to keep his fury – and fear, and worry – concealed. But he had never been good at keeping things bottled in. And he was not good at finding Daphne in the debris of a blown up cellar, broken bottles all around her.

He'd been so furious, so frightened, so worried that day. He'd never let go of her that night.

"So you managed to convince her this time. One day, she'll do the same to you."

She'd gone to the desert for wisdom and power. She'd come back with enough wisdom to wish she had never obtained such power.

She could see the storm gathering beneath his short intake of breath, and she realized what had seemed so strange to her before. He reminded her of the desert, of its storms and mushrooms and mirages, of loving her too much to let her go. For a second she doubted the reality. Then she smiled. Every prophet needed their desert, and now, he was hers. One way or the other, she'd make him accept her as she was.

"I am magnificent," she said, giving him a before-grin and assuming a before-stance, so genuine that he was startled by them. "This is me, and I am magnificent. You look at me as if I am broken, damaged. You say I need to heal. Yes, I am different. But I cannot get better, because I already am the best there is. I went to the desert for wisdom and power, and I came from the desert wise and powerful. You didn't drop me, and you don't have to pick up the pieces and put me together. I am. And I am magnificent."

She had said it. She could have said it. And one day she would say it. But for now, she spoke something quite different.

"Don't," she said sharply. She didn't know if he had already told her what she knew he would, or if he would yet do it, so in the case of the latter, she elaborated, "Do not ask Hermione not to come here. I want to see her. Even if she does compare me to Ariana."

"You _were_ spying on us," he now accused, but she did not think the less of him for that.

"Didn't need to," she said a little sadly. Maybe she should have lied. "I already knew what you were going to say to each other."

He didn't shout, and he didn't inquire, and he didn't look at her like that. He gave her a glance quite different.

"You do insist on being difficult," Draco said, and there was a note of exasperation in his tone that she rather liked.

Magnificent. She was magnificent. For now, however, she'd take the difficult.

"I know," she replied, and continued in the most efficient way to bring peace about, "but you still love me."

There would be no more arguing after these words. He'd confess the truth of it, and then, as if afraid she might not believe him, or maybe realizing that this truth was a lot more important that several others, he'd go on proving it to her over and over again, and there would be no more time for arguing.

This is real, Daphne repeated the mantra. I am alive and I am here. Draco is alive and he is here. We are both alive and here and together. I am happy.

It must be real, she thought. Never before in any of her illusions had there been any need to repeatedly remind herself that she was indeed happy.

**_Fin_**

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note:<em>

Happy ending? Not happy enough? Well, that's the best I can give you. This story needs to be a little sad. I'd like to write another sequel, but until I come up with a suitable title (and plot), I won't.

I like writing angsty pieces about Daphne. I'm going to write more about her.


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